Berserker
by isolde13
Summary: A look at the way things might have gone in Asylum if Dean had not had an unloaded gun...
1. Chapter 1

Berserker: One of a band of ancient Norse warriors legendary for their savagery and reckless frenzy in battle.

Author's notes: My new mantra is "There will never be enough Hurt!Dean in this world." This story imagines a world where Dean did NOT have an unloaded gun to give to Sammy in Asylum.

This fic uses lines directly from the episode.

Berserker (Part 1)

Sam's mind is a whirlwind of feelings and emotions, all flying dangerously wild, all of them pulsating red. They threaten to close in, to suffocate the very life that they are feeding on.

Until the moment that he pulls the trigger and Dean goes flying through the wall like some psychotic circus performer.

It is at this moment when the red retreats and Sam feels the hum of pure pleasure.

It feels good - wickedly, sinfully good to finally shut his brother up.

And it does not matter at all to him that he had to shoot him full of rock salt to do it.

He wipes his nose with his hand, carelessly smearing more crimson across his face. Then he walks through the hole in the wall his brother has just made and stands over his unconscious body.

He forces himself to wait patiently. He figures if Dean doesn't wake within the next minute or so, then he will have the pleasure of waking Dean. He feels the heft of the shotgun in his hand and hopes that Dean does not wake on his own.

Yet, even before the imaginary time limit is up, Dean is coming to, waking with a groan before gathering his faculties quickly and looking around - scanning, analyzing.

By this time, the pleasure that Sam was able to steal earlier is gone. The red is now back. With a vengeance. It is more than anger. More than rage. It is a fury that obliterates everything, making it hard to formulate thoughts. It renders logic and reason obsolete in its wake.

"Sam, we gotta burn Ellicott's bones and all this will be over. And you'll be back to normal."

God, how the voice grates. The condescension in that know-it-all voice could make ears bleed.

Time to start disavowing Dean of his little illusion that everything will be just fine. "I am normal," Sam begins. "I'm just telling the truth for the first time."

He barely pauses, barely takes a breath, before continuing. "I mean why are we even here?" he asks, and the red flows through him, giving him strength, energy. The words spill out of his mouth, words that until just recently were nothing more than malformed whispers of thoughts, barely even given the time of day. "Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier? Cause you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?"

Dean shakes his head, trapped in denial. "This isn't you talking, Sam."

"See, that's the difference between you and me," Sam continues, becoming deaf to his brother's voice. To his logic. "I have . . . a mind . . . of my own." He points the shotgun at his own head, the place where the red is slowly swelling, threatening once again to consume him. "I'm not pathetic like you."

"What are you gonna do, Sam? Are you going to kill me?" Dean asks calmly.

This time Dean's voice penetrates and Sam hears. And although he ignores the question, it has already implanted itself in his brain. It shines brightly there for a moment, before being pushed to the side. Sam still has things that he wants to say and he knows that he needs to say them before the red wins out.

"You know, I am sick of you telling me what to do. We're no closer to finding dad today than we were six months ago."

"Sam . . . "

And suddenly Dean is moving, pushing his body up and kicking out with his legs faster than any injured man should be able to. Sam does not expect this, and he almost loses his balance. Almost falls. Almost loses.

Almost.

He rights himself just in time, and swings the shotgun like a bat, right down into Dean's mid-section, causing his brother to fall back on the ground like a discarded doll.

"What the hell was that, huh?" Sam shouts. "We were having a nice discussion!" And with that his hands change position on the shotgun yet again, so that he is holding only one end of it. The other end he rams into his brother's face. Not hard really. Not hard enough to break bone. Just hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make his brother's head whip to the side. Hard enough to make him grunt in pain. Hard enough to bleed.

The feeling of pleasure is back and now Sam understands. Dr. Ellicott has bestowed a gift upon him. Here, in these grimy, unused halls, he can say what he wants to say, be who he wants to be and do what he wants to do. All those malformed thoughts no longer have to eat away at his sanity. Here they are given birth to.

And here they are beautiful.

"Sam . . . " A mere whisper from his brother's lips; incomplete and broken.

Sam looks down, sees that Dean is turning on his side. Trying to curl up, to ease the pain.

Or trying for another assault. Sam knows all too well that Dean can be a crafty little fucker.

He uses the gun as leverage to flip his brother onto his back. He finds himself staring at the blood on his face, finds himself thinking that it looks good there. That it looks right.

"Sam, I get that you're pissed," Dean says quickly, his voice fluttery and breathy. "I get that you hate me right now. But you need to stop this. Ok?"

But all Sam hears is 'you need to stop'. The order. _Always_ the fucking order.

He moves so that he is no longer above Dean but beside him and kicks out with his foot. Dean tries to grab at it, almost gets it. Almost throws him off balance. Almost wins.

Almost.

But Dean is slow tonight. It might be because of the rock salt sizzling in his flesh. Or maybe it's the bruising on his ribs. More than likely, it's a winning combination of the two. Whatever it is, Dean misses and Sam's foot connects with Dean's side, not once but twice.

Dean rolls over again, coughing and gasping, body automatically trying to go fetal.

Sam looks down at him, waits to see if he will feel pity. He knows that he should feel that emotion. He knows that he should feel something for this man lying in pain on the floor. The same man who has watched over him and taken care of him since before he can remember. Yet all he feels is that strange pleasure. From here he can see the plaster dust that has settled in his brother's hair from falling through the wall. He focuses in on that for a moment.

He thinks that his brother looks very pretty in red and white.

Underneath him, Dean shifts a little and manages to groan out, "Sammy."

It is a plea. For mercy, maybe? Whatever it is, Sam doesn't care. His only thought is that Dean calling him by _that_ name is just about the biggest mistake he can make right now.

He smiles and leans down. One hand grabs hold of Dean's hair and pulls back harshly. Against the curve of his brother's neck he whispers. "That's not my name."

Sam watches as Dean swallows convulsively. "I didn't mean . . . "

"Say my name. Say it right, Dean or I'll rip out your fucking tongue and stuff it down your throat."

Sam waits, listens for it, but Dean stays stubbornly silent beneath him.

So he tightens his grip on his brother's fine, white hair and yells, "Say it!" with as much force as his lungs will allow.

And Dean, whose body has been as rigid as a board until now, suddenly goes limp.

Defeat. Sam can almost smell it in the air. His brother is beaten. Just a little. But it is more than enough.

"Sam."

The word is offered up quietly. Sam knows it is meant as a peace offering.

He lets go and stands back up, watches his brother drop to the ground.

He feels strong. He feels in control.

Invincible.

Justified.

The peace offering is discarded.

"That's right. It's Sam, you fucking idiot. Sam."

Then he swings his arms and watches as the shotgun crashes against Dean's thigh.

The grunt from his brother brings ecstacy. It is motivation. It is fuel.

So he does it again. And again. Over and over. Not bothering to aim the blows. There is no point. The pleasure is in the madness of it. In the absolute chaos of beating his brother until his brother breaks.

"Things are gonna change around here, starting now. Do you hear me?" Another swing, another brutal connect.

"We're going to start doing what _I_ say." Once again, metal meets flesh. Once again, flesh yields.

He finally stops and drops the shotgun, for no other reason than he's tired and his hands ache. He stands there panting, trying to catch his breath. And exulting. The red and the pleasure have now melded into one. And the feeling that it brings is near orgasmic.

Eventually he looks down at his brother. He can't help but like what he sees. Dean is completely fetal now. His face is pressed against the dirty floor and his left arm lays at an unnatural angle. Tremors run through his body, causing it to shiver as his breath comes in shaky, shuddering gasps.

Sam flips him over so that he is once again on his back. Dean's body tries to resist, but it has no strength to do so. He flops back, his eyes shut, face tight with pain.

Sam drops down to his knees and straddles him. He flexes his hands, then with a gentleness that belies his intentions, he places them around his brother's throat.

Dean finally opens his eyes and stares blearily up at Sam.

"Sam. Do you hate me this much?"

Sam tilts his head to the side, and actually pauses to think about this question. He feels that this is important, that he is at a crossroads here. To go the wrong way would be disastrous. Then he smiles, feels just a little more blood slide out of his nose and says, "Do you even have to ask?"

He begins to squeeze.

He expects Dean to fight. He is ready for it, keeping his own throat just out of Dean's reach. But Dean isn't fighting. He's just staring up at him with wide, wounded eyes. And now, wonder of all wonders, Sam sees tears. Not many tears, that's not his brother's style. Just two, one from each eye. Long, beautiful crystal tears that run down the side of his face and pool at his neck. On Sam's own hands.

And just when he thought this was going to be relatively easy, Dean begins to fight. He brings his one good hand up to Sam's two and tries desperately to pry them off.

Apparently his brother has decided that he is not going to go gently into that good night after all.

But Dean's pathetic efforts change nothing. If anything, they encourage Sam to squeeze harder.

He is on his way to committing an unforgivable sin and yet he doesn't care.

No, that's not quite true. He does care. He cares that he is feeling the most incredible high that he has ever known.

He allows himself a smile as he watches Dean's pitiful struggle to keep his life. His brother's mouth is open, gasping desperately for precious air. His eyes, now open very wide, are staring at the ceiling. In them he reads his fear and sadness. It is the only time in his life that he has truly known what his brother was thinking.

Eventually, the struggles begin to cease and Dean's eyes begin to close. His face and body relax and his hand falls casually down to the floor.

They almost there. Sam is almost free. Just a little longer . . . just a little more pressure . . .

Then he hears a sound from behind him - a shocked and terrified intake of breath.

Reluctantly, he releases his hold on Dean and turns his head.

The kids. They stand at the room's entrance, staring at him as if seeing the devil himself.

Fuck. He'd forgotten all about them.

He makes a move toward the shotgun, intending to blast the annoying little bitch and her idiot boyfriend right in the head.

But somehow, she moves first. She lifts her own gun and pulls the trigger.

Sam is thrown back from the force of it and feels the same white, blinding pain his brother must have felt. Mercifully, it lasts only an instant before his entire world melts into black.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: This is Dean's POV. His thoughts are more disjointed and not as lyrical as Sam's. But Sam was tired and refused to talk to me.

Berserker (Part 2)

Dean takes a long, shuddering breath as soon as Sam removes his hands from his throat. His body contorts, his eyes open and close and his hand comes up to clutch at the newly raw patch of skin on his neck.

He is not actually aware of any of these reactions. And he is most certainly not aware of the drama that is unfolding around him. He is only aware of the fact that he is getting air. And that his body wants more.

He takes one greedy gulp of it after another, not caring that it feels as if he is taking in acid with each one. He does this until his breathing mostly evens out and the muscles in his body become lax. He takes a brief moment to reassure himself that he is indeed alive, because really, for all intents and purposes he should be a goner, then he turns his head to the side to see what the hell just happened.

Except that everything is blurred and distorted and he can't make out a damn thing. He realizes that the tears that are streaming furiously down his face are to blame and he wipes them away with an impatient, albeit it shaky, hand.

He is surprised to see that the kids are now in the room with him. The boy, whose name he cannot seem to remember, is standing over Sam's prone body. The girl, whose name he remembers as Kat, is standing a few feet away from all of them. The shotgun in her hands is pointing steadily at Sam.

They are discussing, in slightly hysterical tones, whether or not Sam is dead. Dean hears the boy tell Kat that Sam is alive, that he's just unconscious, and he offers up a silent thank you to whoever wants to take credit for that fact.

The boy, apparently feeling there's nothing he can do for Sam, steps away from him and walks toward Dean. He kneels down next to him and places a tentative hand on his shoulder. He asks if he is all right. Dean almost scoffs at the question. And because he's not sure how to even begin to answer it, he ignores it completely. Instead he tells the boy that he has to be the one to burn Ellicott's bones. Talking is pure agony, both from his throat and from his chest, and his voice does not rise above a whisper, but he still manages to instruct the boy on what to do. He prays that the boy will be quick. He is not sure that he can protect them all from Sam if he wakes before the ghost is exorcized.

Kat kneels next to him then, shotgun still in hand and still pointed at Sam. Dean realizes that she is protecting him from his own brother. He finds that both absurdly sweet and horribly sad. "He was trying to kill you," she says. "I thought he was your friend."

"So did I."

The boy manages to find the bones, salt them and throw the lighter fluid on them. Dean couldn't be prouder. He would praise him if he could only remember his goddamn name, and if he could talk without the urge to throw up.

He is about to set the bones alight when Ellicott's ghost comes out of nowhere and grabs onto him - a pain in the ass until the very end, that Ellicott. The boy starts to scream as blue lightning flashes around his head.

Despite the pain shooting through his body and the very real possibility that he could be fucking himself up worse, Dean forces himself to begin to move. His intent is to help somehow, but the girl is quicker. She puts the shotgun down, picks up the discarded lighter and flicks it on. Then she throws it on the son of a bitch's remains.

Forget the boy, Kat's couldn't make him any prouder if she was Dean's own daughter.

All three of them watch in silence as Ellicott's spirit burns away until there is nothing left of him but the faint smell of ozone in the air.

Dean lowers himself gently back to the floor. Now that it's over, he wishes he could just close his eyes and sleep and try to forget. Every inch of him seems to hurt. And he is so tired, so very tired. And while Kat and the boy with no name are wrapped around each other and comforting each other, he is alone. He has no one to tell him that everything is all right. He has no one to lie to him and tell him that his brother did not really mean to kill him.

It doesn't take long for Sam to wake up. Dean watches him carefully, as one would watch a snake. He is searching for any signs that his brother is still not himself. He watches as Sam first wakes up to pain, then confusion, then the dawning of realization.

He watches as Sam gets up and starts making his way over to him. He grits his teeth and wishes for a fast-forward button so that he won't have to endure whatever is about to come next.

The boy, seeing Sam moving toward him, yells, "Hey, get away from him!"

"It's ok," Dean whispers. "It's over. Isn't it, Sam?"

Sam, looking more shell-shocked than anything, nods. "Yeah. It's over."

Sam reaches Dean and drops down on his knees next to him. He extends his hand toward Dean's face, but Dean flinches away from the touch. He doesn't mean to, he'd much rather play stoic hard-guy, but he's pretty damn sure that he can't handle his brother's touching him right now. Because somewhere, in a dark place that he barely even allows himself to recognize, he is just a little bit afraid of him.

"Dean, oh God . . . Are you . . . oh God . . . "

Dean knows Sam well enough to mentally translate these words into full sentences. "I'll be fine. Just get me to the motel," he replies.

"No. No, you need a hospital."

"No hospital."

"We're not arguing about this. You need a doctor. You need a hospital."

Dean swallows painfully, and opens his mouth to continue to protest. The protest, however, dies a quick death on his lips. He's too tired and in too much pain to argue. And the truth is, Sam is probably right, he does need a hospital. But he feels the need to get in one good dig even as he agrees. "That's right. We do things your way now. Forgot."

Sam's face twists with guilt and Dean feels somewhat better knowing that he has hurt him. He knows it is childish, but it is all he can seem to latch onto.

He expects Sam to begin to apologize, to unravel, but his little brother surprises him. He manages to erase the guilty, haunted look from his face and he begins to bark orders in a way that would make any commando proud - in a way that would make their father proud. He tells the kids that they are to go home and to tell no one of what happened. He takes everything that he and Dean brought in with them, shotguns included, and stashes them away in the trunk of the car when he walks the kids outside. Then he comes back and quickly tells Dean their cover story: they are new in town, they heard about the asylum and thought it would be fun to poke around in it. Once inside, they were assaulted and robbed by two guys who were apparently squatting there.

When he finishes, Sam asks Dean if he understands what he needs to say.

Dean, a little in awe of his brother's transformation into their father, can only nod.

Then Sam calls 911.

The ride to the hospital and the subsequent exam are a dim blur for Dean. Mostly because he is sliding in and out of consciousness the entire time. He is only vaguely aware that Sam held his hand and muttered reassurances to him the entire time.

When the doctor asks him questions to determine how lucid he is, he finds he cannot answer. It is all too much, all of it too much, and how can he possibly be expected to tell anyone what the name of the President is or even his own name for that matter when his own brother has just tried to kill him?

The doctor seems concerned by his lack of response, but decides to attribute his silence to psychological, not head trauma. After x-rays are done, his arm is set, and his cuts are cleaned and stitched, the doctor leans down and tells him that he is lucky that his injuries weren't worse. He does not bother to tell her that she couldn't be more wrong about his luck.

Eventually they move him to a semi-private room with no roommate and leave him in relative peace. It is the first time that he has been alone since this living nightmare started. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about what happened or why he is here. He knows that thinking about it will be like falling into the deepest, darkest pit imaginable and that he may never find his way out of it.

But he thinks about it all the same.

He thinks about how much his brother must hate him. Oh, he knows that Sam loves him, nothing in the world will ever change that certainty, but he just never imagined that hate could coexist with that love. He thinks about how badly Sam hurt him and the smile on his face when he was doing it. And he thinks about, and relives over and over, the moment when Sam placed his hands around his throat and began to squeeze. He thinks about nearly dying under those hands.

That thought, the thought that Sam almost killed him, resonates most loudly. Sam - his little brother, the man whom he would walk through fire for, the man whom _he_ would die for without a second thought. God, the same man that he always gave the best G.I. Joes to . . .

Dean bites back on a sob. Fuck, he can't do this. The last thing he needs right now is to turn into a weeping mess on this bed.

He manages to pull himself together, barely, when he hears footfalls entering the room.

Even with his eyes closed and his body pumped full of drugs, he recognizes the steps of his brother.

His ears tell him that Sam is pulling up a chair next to him, so he turns his head away from him, opens his eyes and stares at the blank whiteness of the wall.

"Hey," Sam says softly.

Dean replies in kind as he studies insignificant patterns on that wall.

"How do you feel?"

"I've felt better."

"I...ummm . . . I talked to the police. They believe the story, but they want to talk to you tomorrow. Just so you know."

"Ok."

"Listen Dean, about what happened earlier . . . I'm so sorry. I know I said and did some horrible things back there."

"You remember all that?"

"Yeah, it's like I couldn't control it. But I didn't mean it."

"What part?"

"Huh?"

"What part didn't you mean?" Dean turns his head to stare at his brother at last. "The part where you called me pathetic? Or the part where you told me you were going to cram my tongue down my throat? Or . . . or my personal favorite - the part where you almost strangled me to death?"

But Sam no longer appears to be listening. He is staring at Dean's face, horrified. "Oh God, Dean . . . your eyes . . . "

"Yeah, strangled, remember?"

Sam's face is all guilt and remorse and a hundred other different kinds of pain as he reaches for him. But Dean is already turning away.

"Forget it, Sam. I don't want to talk about it."

"Dean, we have to talk about this. We can't just bury this."

Dean feels Sam's hand on his arm and he jerks it away. "I'm not really in the caring, sharing kind of mood."

"Please look at me, man. Please just look at me."

"Sam, I'm tired. I just want to sleep."

"I'm sorry, Dean. You know I would never hurt you intentionally."

Dean scoffs. He's never realized it before, but sorry is such a piss-poor word. It solves nothing. It saves nothing.

"Dean . . . "

"Sam . . . "

He hears Sam sigh in defeat. "At least tell me you don't hate me. Then I'll leave you alone."

Dean ponders the request. Of course he doesn't hate Sam. They could replay that scene in the asylum a thousand times and Dean would never feel hatred toward Sam. He's just not sure if he wants to let Sam know that. His brother is looking for absolution and Dean isn't sure if he wants to give it to him. And why should he? Why should Sam be at peace when he himself feels like he's just been ripped apart and put back together by a blind, idiot child?

He answers his own angry question almost as soon as he asks it. Because Sam needs absolution. And he has never been able to deny Sam anything. He figures he'll find his own peace eventually.

"I don't hate you," he says.

"Really?" Only one word, but it is so full of hope.

Dean closes his eyes and thinks about that little boy with his torn jeans and his G.I. Joes. The thought makes him tired; mind-numbingly, vastly tired.

"I love you, Sam. Always."


End file.
